


How to Heal in the Company of Others

by MarbleAide



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Abused!Tom Series, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Domestic Violence, Emotional Abuse, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual, Oral Sex, Physical Abuse, Rape, Rimming, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, This is all sorts of bad, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarbleAide/pseuds/MarbleAide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years, Tom has been in a relationship with Chris. The good parts have given way to abuse that Tom simply ignores, figuring Chris still loves him. It's not until things get really bad and Tom meets Evans that everything turns, but Tom's still the only one who can change it all, if only he has just a little help. </p><p>A series of works called my Abused!Tom Series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If Only.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [If Only](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412020) by [leet19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leet19/pseuds/leet19)



> Just to be warned, this story is dark. It is not sweet Hiddlesworth you might be used to. Chris Hemsworth is an ass in this and everything is abuse, rape, and pretty much dark shit everywhere. Read the tags above and if you do not like it then don't read it. I'm warning you, it gets bad before it gets better. Just for your own safety.

It’s starting to rain outside, which only adds to the dramatic atmosphere of it all. Last time, Tom recalls, it was a nice night. The moon was out, so were some stars, and Chris looked like he was glowing with the street lamps bright behind him. He had smiled and Tom had only just been able to suppress his flinch before attempting to crack a smile back. Tom’s still not sure if he actually said the words ‘I’m sorry’, but somehow he’d taken Chris’s hand and led him back inside, shutting the door tight behind them both.

This time, it’s raining. Chris is already drenched in it, his hair sticking to his face as he hugs his arms around himself, clearly shaking with the gusts of wind and the chill in the air. He looks alone and broken and sad to the point where Tom can almost forget about the bruises that batter his face or the feeling of how tender his scalp still is.

“Tom…”

The name makes him turn his head away, eyes fixing on the stairs he’s standing on instead of the man standing before him. The way that voices says his name, softly as if spoken too loud it could be proclaimed a sin, makes Tom’s heart leap into his throat. He can’t find the nerve to swallow, to look up, because it reminds him of before. Of when Chris would kiss him. When they would just lie in bed all day. When they would laugh.

“Tom.”

His head jerks to the side when the voice repeats the call, jaw clenched so tight he’s worried it might finally dislocate from the hit he took earlier. It would be something new to put down in the books. That voice is now firmer, edging towards demanding, and suddenly Tom doesn’t know when his body started to shake. His gaze slowly, but surely, moves upward as the tone of voice is requesting. Like he’s been trained. His eyes meet blue ones, soft and calm and so very warm even in the cold night air. It worries him, sickens him, but he can’t help but hold the stare and let his body relax with it.

“Please?”

He can feel the split in his lip when he licks it, memory still clear of how heavy copper tastes on his tongue. He’s still not done with the load of laundry that’s meant to clean up any unwanted red stains on his clothes. In the morning, Tom’s pretty sure he won’t be able to see out of his right eye. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep tonight without waking up in a cold sweat.

“Please?”

Tom reaches out his hand, and Chris takes it, just like he always does, and there is a second where Chris squeezes it, gently like he used to, reassuring Tom of how he’ll do better this time. He’ll try harder. And there is a moment, a wonderful moment that Tom lives for, where he feels a flutter in his stomach and his heart leaps; for in that single moment he believes that Chris loves him again; utterly and truly believes that.

And everything will be like it was.


	2. Forgiveness.

It takes Tom hours to go to sleep at this point, if he even sleeps at all, especially if Chris isn’t there with him in bed. It’s a happy medium; he’s called it in his mind, because if Chris is in bed with him, at least he knows what he’s doing. At least Tom knows if he’s sleeping or not, where his hands are, because if Chris is out of sight, Tom doesn’t know what will happen next. He normally can’t sleep otherwise.

This time, however, it’s too much. He’d been fighting a headache ever since he hit the ground hours ago, eyes growing heavy as they start to swell shut, and Tom simply can’t help himself. There’s an alarm that goes off in the back of his mind when he shuts his eyes and drifts off, wondering what Chris will do if he’s not watching. Wondering if he’ll ever wake up.

Tom is startled awake with a touch, jolting upright with the slightest graze of his body which has honed in on such fine details after so long. The world is black around him, eyes not yet prepared for the dim lighting of the room, and the right can barely open at all. He’s frantic for a moment, heartbeat rising fast with the passing of each second because he can’t see, doesn’t know, can only wait for the pain—

“Sshhh…”

The sound comes softly in his ear, making Tom jerk away from the whispering voice and those feeling hands. Of course, he cannot go far enough away and in a matter of seconds a pair of hands is touching him in the dark, a quiet rough voice whispering in his ear close enough that Tom can feel the heat of breath against his skin. The bed shifts, dips, and Tom can feel Chris behind him, pressing and groping while his hands wrap around him, pulling him close, making sure he can’t escape.

“I wanted to apologize.” Chris mutters in Tom’s ear, which still sounds much too poisonous under the layer of compassion.

He bites his lip and says nothing in reply, doesn’t move, barely breathes. He’s just tired and wants to sleep. He doesn’t want Chris touching him. He wants him to fall back against the bed and dose off, let Tom be. Please. Please.

“You’re too good to me, you know.” Chris nuzzles his nose into the back of Tom’s neck, kisses at the patch of skin as his hands move under Tom’s shirt to press into stomach, ribs, chest, areas that still ache with past regrets and paint a morbid color palette all over his torso.

Tom can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut at this, wishing that Chris was someone else. That he was a drunk. A druggie. Something that could be used as any excuse—any excuse—for his behavior. Anything that would make Tom love him a little bit less, because he was still Chris. His Chris. Nothing at all changed except for when the punches being thrown stopped being an accident.

The hands on his body wander from his upper body down, easily dipping below the hem of the sweat pants Tom is wearing, making his breath hitch and on instinct he reaches out to grab one of Chris’s wrists to stop him. He doesn’t mean to. He swears. Really. Please.

Tom gets his wish and the hands stop, the entire body behind him freezes up and all Tom can do is squeeze his eyes closed tighter and hope that there are no more tears left for tonight.

“Chri—“

The slap sends his head snapping to the side, eased by the pillow he rested on, but the smack to his already bruised face still makes him cry out with pain prickling at his eyes and he might taste blood again in his mouth.

The hands return on his body, harder than before, gripping and turning and manipulating until Tom is forced to turn onto his stomach, pinned down by the weight of Chris as he climbs up on top of him.

“I said, I wanted to apologize.” The voice says, only a fraction deeper then what it was and Tom finds himself sobbing into his pillow as he is stripped bare from the waist down in one swift move.

He doesn’t dare move as Chris moves his hips up, doesn’t breath as fingers press inside of him, slick and feeling too hard, too much. It doesn’t last long enough for what comes next, it never does, and Tom has gotten used to burying his face in the pillow, biting at the fabric and drooling into it as he screams and screams and screams until it’s soaked with his spit. It burns, it always burns, feeling as though he’s being split in half. His body is shaking so hard, Tom’s afraid he might throw up with the combination of nerves and pain. And here the bruises on his hips were just starting to fade. He was doing so well.

Chris comes, Tom can feel it inside him, hear it in the way Chris moans, and all Tom can think about is how happy he is that it’s not his mouth. The reopened cut on his lip would have burned horribly.

The ease out isn’t so bad, but the kisses afterwards are. Chris kisses all up his back, shoulders, neck. The places that are still white and creamy, where hits land rarely and sometimes Tom wonders if that’s on purpose. Chris settles on top of him, making sure Tom knows he’s there, pressing down onto him, before he snuggles closer and places a final kiss on the side of Tom’s neck, right below his ear.

“I love you.”

Tom says nothing. Does nothing. But he wishes.

Wishes.

Wishes.


	3. Paint Them Red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris's POV this time around.

They’re nothing special. They’re thin. Pink. Totally normal in comparison to the rest of Tom’s face. But somehow that just makes it so much worse. The fact that they are so ordinary, Chris finds the need to change them. To make them just as amazing and beautiful as the rest of his body. 

He starts out slow with his hands, running fingertips over the too-thin lips, dragging the bottom one down until he can see teeth and gums. Tom is still below him, laying on his back staring up at him with a glazed over expression, out of his mind so he can just feel everything and not think. Chris is in charge of him tonight. He’ll do all the thinking.

When he’s mapped the line and curve of those lips with thumb and pointer, Chris shoves his fingers into Tom’s mouth, who openly accepts them, moaning softly and sucks. Chris lets him do that for a little while, satisfied by Tom’s tongue rolling over his digits and the pretty hollows his cheeks make when he sucks them hard. Chris moves his fingers further back, seeing just how much Tom can take as he presses against the roof of his mouth, down his throat, and feels the soft tissue there. Tom gags at the feeling of nails scrapping lightly against the wet flesh, Chris only pulling away when he starts to feel Tom’s body tense below his own, so he removes his fingers from his throat, mouth, pulling hard at Tom’s bottom lip until he sees the other wince before letting it go.

He moves on to kissing him, memorizing everything about Tom’s lips with his own. They’re still too thin, but they’re softer compared to his. They taste of mint toothpaste and mouthwash. He kisses them until the flavor is gone, sucks on them until they swell a little, and then bite until they grow red. Tom winces when he does this too, but this time Chris doesn’t pull away. He angles his teeth so his canines sink into Tom’s lips, tearing the tender flesh until he hears a soft whimper and can taste blood. It’s delicious he thinks, and sucks the heavy copper onto his own tongue. After he goes back to kissing a little bit more, almost like an apology, before pulling away and admiring how bruised and bloody Tom’s lips look now. They’re smeared with red and swollen. It’s beautiful, Chris thinks, how Tom keeps them parted as he breathes in little pants of air.

Chris gives Tom a minute or two to calm himself before he moves, standing up to strip himself of the last of his clothing before turning to sitting on Tom’s chest, legs on either side of him as he shifts to press the head of his cock to Tom’s bottom lip. It’s an odd angle that won’t give him enough leverage to thrust as hard as he wants to and it hurts Tom to bend his neck to accommodate, but then again that’s sort of the point.

Tom pants out warm puffs of moist air as Chris takes his dick in hand and taps it against Tom’s mouth, loving the sound of skin slapping against skin. It makes him hard; harder than he was, and it’s when a soft blossom of pink starts to appear at the corner of Tom’s mouth from the small abuse that he lifts Tom’s head and shoves his cock into his mouth. It’s not a slow process, he doesn’t wait for Tom to get used to having it down his throat or give him room to lick or suck properly, Chris simply pushes until he feels the head of his cock nudge against the back of Tom’s throat. Tom’s gagging again, but Chris moans, looking down to see those beautifully puffy, rosy lips now stretched all the way around his cock.

It’s the best sight he can think of, having Tom’s mouth wrapped around him like this, his eyes filling up with tears of pain and discomfort. He stays just like that for a while, keeping himself still and just feeling the wetness of Tom’s mouth, the tight hold of his lips around his cock, waiting until Tom’s hands start to curl in the sheets from the lack of oxygen in lungs. Only then does he move, takes the sides of Tom’s head in each hand, fingers tangled in curly strands of hair, and pulls his cock free, hips swiveling. Tom gasps for breath, coughing and trying to take in lungfuls before Chris slams back in once more.

The pace is slow and brutal, always stabbing at the back of Tom’s throat to watch him struggle and wince. Chris never removes his cock completely from Tom’s mouth, loving how his lips look around him too much.

It never takes long like this, thrusting in and out as he keeps looking down at Tom, watching the panic rise in his eyes as his lungs start to run dry once more and his entire body tenses up, trying so desperately hard not to struggle and thrash under Chris. Chris smiles, moaning now with every thrust of his hips, trying to shove into that hot mouth as hard as he possibly can.

When he comes, Chris is always torn between wanting to come down Tom’s throat and make him choke on it, or painting his lips and mouth. The latter normally wins out, because it’s just so intoxicating to see Tom look so very filthy. He pulls out when he’s right on the edge, groaning loud with the loss of that warmth, and takes himself in hand, jerking his cock only three times more before he’s coming in a quiet gasp, biting his tongue to keep his eyes open as he shoots over Tom’s open mouth.

White streaks Tom’s now red stained lips. He’s breathing too hard and light-headed to notice it much, just feeling the sticky warmth fall onto his lips. Absently, Tom’s tongue darts out to taste, lick, trying to get the dirty sensation off of him. And, being as good as he is, Chris helps by scooping up the cum with his fingers and pressing it into Tom’s mouth, smiling as the dazed man sucks his fingers clean.

By the time Chris is done, Tom looks broken and destroyed. He’s breathing too hard and his hair is sticking out from where Chris held him and pulled too hard. His mouth is swollen and red, abused and so much more beautiful from when they started. Tom’s lips aren’t has thin anymore and they are so much brighter compared to their normal soft pink hue.

It’s almost sad to think the look won’t last, but then again that’s why Chris is here. To make sure he’s there to always put it back and make Tom’s lips just as beautiful as the rest of him. Never let him forget.


	4. Rescue Me.

He doesn’t go out much in the week to follow, not because he can’t (he can, he hasn’t lost that ‘privilege’), but because he’s tired of attempting to explain the bruises and injuries that cover his face. He’s grateful whenever Chris decides to hit below the collar, as those are so much easier to hide. He’s gotten tired of trying to answer questions, of hiding the black and blue under layers of make-up, of avoiding people’s worried looks. So, instead, he waits for the swelling to die down, for his skin to take on a semi-normal color before venturing outside.

He always has to tell Chris where he’s going, lest he wants to be questioned whenever he got home. Can never be too late, can never go out with people Chris hasn’t ‘approved’ of already. But Tom can go out, be alone for a bit, or at the very least be without Chris, and somehow that seems like enough.

Tom goes out to lunch with Scarlett, getting a table out on the patio so he can be in the sun, be warm, because he hasn’t been this warm in a long time and all he wants to do is savor it. When he sees Scarlett walking towards him, he smiles at her and the smile is only returned with a small frown. She’s not ignorant to what goes on within the closed off walls of Chris and Tom’s home, but she’s learned to not ask so many questions, seeing as all Tom does is avoid them, even if she wants to, especially when she sees his lip—still the faint reminder of the split in it remains, obscuring Tom’s smile. Even then, it’s not as bright as she remembers.

“I want to talk to you about something.”

The words make Tom’s jaw twitch, knowing full well that those words never led to anything he likes to hear. Instinctively, Tom reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, knowing the bruises were gone, but still wondered if Scarlett could see how his skin seems just a little bit off, that maybe the pain was still there and he had winced, made it obvious, stupid, stupid—

“It’s not about him, Tom.”

The way that she says ‘him’ is done so with such detest and hate that Tom can’t help but flinch away from it. Even so, he calms down just a bit afterwards, able to look Scarlett in the eye and act like the very mention of Chris doesn’t make panic rise up in his throat.

“Okay…what about?”

“I…I want to introduce you to someone.”

Tom can feel his face go ashen and it takes every single thread of self-control to not vomit up the half of his lunch that he’s already eaten.

—-

That night he doesn’t stop Chris’s advances, feeling a sinking guilt eating away at his stomach while remembering the conversation from earlier. When pressed, Tom sinks to his knees without any protest, quickly undoing Chris’s belt and pulling it from the loops. There’s a hand in his hair, carding through curls and tugging softly for a little while as Tom unzips jeans and pulls buttons from holes. His hands are about to tug down Chris’s boxers when the fingers grasp at his hair, making him gasp as they jerk his head up at an odd angle, exposing his neck and forcing Tom to look up into Chris’s eyes.

“You’re…eager tonight.” Chris coos out, his hold in Tom’s hair growing a little bit hard, forcing Tom to resist clenching his teeth with the pain.

“I just…” He has to swallow around the lump in his throat, try to not think too loudly in fear of Chris hearing his thoughts and finding out what he did. What he had been offered. No. No. “I missed you.” It’s a lie that makes his lungs burns, but telling the truth would be so much worse

Luckily, Chris just smiles, either not noticing the lie or not caring. Tom feels some sort of relief wash through him as the grip on his hair loosens, letting his neck relax as he goes back to what he’s doing. He just tries to relax as he finally pulls down Chris’s jeans and boxers, remind himself that he’s sorry. He needs to do this so Chris won’t be mad at him.

Even as Chris shoves his cock forward and chokes him. As he pushes him back against the wall until his head hits hard and fucks his throat relentlessly, making Tom dizzy with the lack of air, making him gag, making tears streak the corners of his eyes, Tom does nothing but take it. Looks up at Chris through his lashes and thanks him with his eyes. The guilt feels a little less, a little like forgiveness, and as Chris comes Tom swallows it all down without a second thought, lapping him clean with his tongue and hoping everything is alright.

Chris takes him to bed and holds him against his chest, keeping him warm and Tom nuzzles in close, trying to calm his nerves. Hours later, Chris wakes up in the middle of the night and goes for a second round. Tom angles his hips up and moans like he wants it. Chris growls out the word ‘mine’ in Tom’s ear and he agrees.

He has to.

—-

Chris Evans has short brown hair that looks a little golden in the sun and blue eyes that always seem to reflect the color of the sky; he stands just an inch below Tom’s own height and there is a horrible knot currently growing bigger in Tom’s stomach when he realizes all of this. He had no intention of ever actually meeting him like Scarlett wanted, but somewhere along the line he should have realized a simple ‘no’ would not have worked on her.

He doesn’t really know what to say. He figures the best thing to do is to get up and leave, but Tom finds he’s frozen to the seat he’s sitting at and his eyes are glued to the area just past Chris—no, no, he can’t call him that, he’s Evans, he’s not Chris, not—just past Evans’s shoulder, somewhere near the pick-up counter of the coffee shop and the glass window holding all the pastries. Scarlett has to call his name three times before he hears it and a fourth is needed for him to actually pull his eyes away.

“Yes, I’m sorry?” He says, trying to sound as polite as ever, trying to make it not so obvious that his hands are clenched too tight into the legs of his pants. “I zoned out a little bit.”

Over the course of thirty minutes, Tom comes to figure out that there is little about Chris and Evans that is similar besides their names and the size of their arms (Tom can’t help but imagine how they would look being swung in the air, how the texture of Evans’s hands would feel on his skin, if his hands would cover the same space Chris’s does, mark him, sear into his skin—). He’s a down-to-earth American who loves his mother and dog. He smiles a lot and covers his face when a joke is made about him, blushing ever so slightly before quickly throwing another joke back.

It’s comforting, almost, but Tom still can’t help the worry in the pit of his stomach, how he jerks and flinches whenever Evans’s gaze turns on him or when Scarlett uses his first name.

Tom has no intentions of seeing him again.

He does anyway.

—-

They’re not dates. Tom can’t bring himself to even think of the word. It makes him want to be sick from the stupidity of it all. He has to lie whenever he goes out; trying to be careful it’s not so often that Chris gets suspicious. To tell him it’s always with Scarlett, and for the first few times it is, but Tom barely notices it when she doesn’t show up for coffee anymore and it’s suddenly just him and Evans. The lie, however, doesn’t change.

He doesn’t know how much Scarlett told Evans, but at the same time he doesn’t really want to know. Evans treats him like a normal person, is always nice and smiles and jokes around. Tom still finds himself flinching whenever he gets to close or whenever he hears the name ‘Chris’, but if Evans notices he doesn’t say anything. He lets it go and let’s Tom be and Tom can’t help but be grateful for that. Whenever Tom shows up with a dark mark on his face, Evans simply frowns for a second before his smile returns. Whenever Tom cancels, Evans never asks why.

Days turn into weeks, which slowly grow into into a month and everything seems fine, almost. It was only a matter of time before Tom got sloppy and he should have known better. He and Evans had gone to a movie, it was raining when they got out and Evans offered his jacket to a shivering Tom. Neither thought anything of it. Both forgot about it as they said goodbye and walked in opposite directions.

Chris is still awake when Tom gets home.

His chest hit the coffee table, knocking the wind from his lungs and making him groan. There’s the slip-second thought of thanks that it wasn’t glass anymore before there’s a hand in his hair pulling him up right again.

“And where the fuck have you been?” Chris growls out as he forces Tom to face him, glaring hard as Tom struggles and attempts to twists away, coughing and trying to suck air back into his lungs.

“C-Chris I—I-I can explai—“ His words get cut off as Chris backhands him, sending him toppling to the ground as he let’s go of his hair at the same time. Tom lands with a heavy thud and can taste blood in his mouth where he bit his tongue, head spinning from the hit as tears swell at the corners of his eyes.

“Explain what?” Chris barks back and moves forward. Tom knows the kick is coming before it hits him, but there is no time to properly protect himself before Chris’s shoe makes contact with his side. Tom gives a sharp cry and curls in on himself, trying to become as small of a target as he possibly can. He knows it won’t work. It never does. “That you’re going behind my back to fuck some other guy?” 

He wants to speak up and say it’s not like that, defend himself even if it is futile, but his ribs aches and his lungs burn with the effort to take in air. His voice is gone except for the occasional cough and choked in breath. Another kick lands in his stomach and the only thought that vibrates through his head is how it’s not his ribs, that nothing is cracked. He doesn’t want the effort to breath becoming harder, because right now he’s gagging for any sort of oxygen to get into his lungs.

“Think you can just leave me like that?” Chris spits out, snarls, which makes Tom wince and whimper, trying to not move at all. “Like some desperate little slut—apparently my cock’s not good enough for you?”

Another slap lands on his cheek with enough force to throw Tom’s head sideways, making him moan as his teeth grind together and his vision goes black for a second. He blinks and everything’s spinning, there’s a ringing in his ears and Tom can’t really focus on anything. He’s staring at the wall and tries to ignore the hands pressing into him, grabbing the back of his neck and shoulders and moving him until he’s on his stomach. He doesn’t know when exactly he started to cry, but now he can’t breathe in between sobs either and everything looks glossy through his eyes.

Chris sits down on his legs and starts ripping Tom’s clothes off him, tearing away pants and underwear and pulling back as much as Tom’s shirt and the accusing jacket as he possibly can without making him get up. Tom can focus enough to pull his arms out from under him, claw at the carpet and wriggle in an attempt to get Chris to move.

The familiar hand returns into his hair to pull his head back before slamming it down into the floor. More black fills his vision and Tom silently begs whoever might listen to not let him black out. He’s terrified of not waking up.

It stops his struggles enough that Chris let’s go of his hair and grips his arm, pulling it behind Tom’s back until he cries out and jerks, only to feel it pull between socket and ball.

“You’re mine, Tom.” Chris hisses, his grip on Tom’s arm is so hard Tom can feel his bones grinding together, aching under his fingers. “You don’t get to leave me, understand?” His hand jerks, Tom cries out from the pressure to his arm, wondering how much more the joint can take until it just pops. “Understand?” Chris yells right next to his ears.

“Y-Yes!” Tom cries out finally, forehead pressed into the carpet, tears soaking into the fabric. “Yes, yes, I’m yours!” He’s sobbing, crying, entire body shaking as he feels Chris shift upward and hears the sound of fabric being moved, a zipper being pulled down. Tom moves his head to the side too quickly, everything gets spotted in black and white, but he doesn’t need the real visual to know what Chris is planning. “Please, please, Chris, please, I’m sorry, d-don’t—“

“It’s not an option.”

Another jerk and Tom screams, his arm finally giving out to the pressure and pops from the socket. Chris finally lets it go and Tom can’t manage twitching his fingers, let alone moving it. It’s enough, he decides, enough of everything, of the pain and ache and Tom can’t help but go limp.

He doesn’t fight Chris anymore, says nothing as he feels Chris’s hands part his buttocks and the burn barely even registers through the rest of the pain as Chris slides his cock inside him, hard and leaking, stabbing at his insides. His eyes are blank with tears and his mouth parts slightly, only enough that he can manage small intakes of air as anything else simply hurts too much. His heart his pounding too hard in his chest and he can feel his body shutting down, trying to block out all his nerve endings as Tom fights to keep awake. He can hear the harsh breathing of Chris behind him, groaning as he digs the pads on his fingers into Tom’s ass, back, thighs, and scratches down with his nails, leaving behind trails of red that speckle with broken skin and blood.

The passage of time doesn’t matter at that moment as everything seems to blur together. Tom’s not sure how long it takes for Chris to thrust a final time inside him, emptying out everything in Tom’s body so he can feel the wet heat of it. Chris pulls out with a hiss, standing up to straighten his clothes before giving Tom a final kick and heads off in the direction of the bedroom. There’s no reaction besides his natural instinct to gasp and curl, flinching ever so slightly when the door is slammed shut.

And there is nothing he can do.

—-

He’s not sure how long he lies on the floor, but he knows there are moments when he blacks out, when he leaves his body and comes back to the heavy aches and pains. It has to have been hours. Hours of just laying there with bruises forming on his skin, his arm dangling loosely beside him, and cum leaking and drying on his thighs. Hours where he waits for Chris to come back, hours of thinking he might not be done, but he hears no further sounds and nothing else happens.

Slowly, Tom picks himself up. It takes time, patients, as his entire body protests. With every movement, he has to bite back little cries of agony from leaving his mouth. He doesn’t want to disturb Chris. Somehow, he manages to get his clothes back on. His legs are weak below him, but after three attempts they take his weight and Tom can only focus on one thing right now.

He doesn’t really know why the number stands out to him, maybe it’s just because it’s the first one on his list. Evans had texted him hours before at a time Tom can only place between when he stepped inside his home and when Chris left him.

‘Sorry, should have probably walked you back. Hope you got there safe anyway!’

Reading it, Tom can’t help but choke back a bitter laugh, tears still staining his cheeks as he pushes the call button, praying to God that Evans answers.

“H-Hello?” The voice is half-sleep, but it’s calm and nothing like the rough growl Tom can still hear bouncing around in his head.

“E-Evans.” Tom’s voice cracks from screaming, crying, and right now he can’t bring himself to care. “S-sorry for…for waking you. I—“

There’s the sound of a body moving, fumbling for a second, before the voice comes back sounding much more awake this time and so much more panicked. “Tom? Shit, Tom, what’s wrong?”

It takes Tom a moment to talk again; he doesn’t want to say it aloud and has to bite his lip to stop it from trembling. “Could…could you just—just come pick me up, please? I just…just.” He can’t help the little sob that pulls from his throat, squeezing his eyes shut tight at the feeling of tears. “Please.”

“I’m on my way.”

There’s no arguing, no other sign of hesitation, Evans just does it without question. For this, Tom can’t help himself as he starts to cry again. Evans doesn’t try to calm him down or make it better; he simply stays on the phone with him until he pulls up with his car and Tom walks out of the house, closing the door behind him.

He doesn’t plan on ever going back.


	5. Wanting It.

Before things got bad, or rather, to the point where it was ‘the usual’ in Tom’s life, he still couldn’t predict Chris’s behavior. Later, he would be able to gauge the way his shoulders move to determine how hard a hit would be. Or whether or not it would be a ‘good day’ by the curve of Chris’s lips. If he would sleep alone in the way Chris’s eyes turned down. At this point, however, Tom was oblivious.

Going out for a drink shouldn’t have been harmful to his health— well, all except for his liver—but Tom doesn’t know any better yet. With a smile and a tug of Chris’s hand, he’d pulled him along to a local bar, claiming that Chris needed to ‘relax, you’ve been working too hard.’ After only a little bit of grumbling and a teasing nip at Tom’s ear, Chris had finally given in and gone. It was supposed to be fun, a few drinks to unwind and joke and just be together outside their apartment like they hadn’t done in so long.

Of course, things had to get complicated.

Five minutes. Chris left for five minutes to use the restroom, which didn’t even faze Tom. He simply ordered another round of drinks, finding the warm buzz throughout his body growing more pleasant by each mouthful. He only blinked to find Chris’s seat taken up by another man, someone who Tom had only noticed out of the corner of his eyes from across the bar. If he wasn’t feeling so warm and light-headed, he might have thought a little more clearly on this. He wouldn’t have let the guy stay in Chris’s seat and he wouldn’t have returned the smile that was thrown his way.

He really should have been thinking a little bit more, or at the very least expected it. But, Tom didn’t and he’d remember to never let it happen again in the morning when he’s putting ice on a new bruise.

Tom blinks again after a while, something that he’ll learn is a bad idea, and Chris is there. His eyes are narrowed and his shoulders tense and Tom can almost see it coming, his mouth open in what he hadn’t decided was a warning or greeting yet, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The stranger in Chris’s seat—who was smiling at Tom and asking to buy him another drink—is pulled by his collar and throw from the chair, from Tom’s view, and there is only a second of panic before Chris is doing the same to him, grabbing and pulling and dragging, but he’s not letting go of Tom like he did to the stranger.

The cool night air almost felt good when Tom was dragged outside. He only had a moment to revel in the feeling, however, before a hard slap sent him tumbling against the brick wall, face burning and water prickling at the corners of his eyes from the sheer force.

There’s silence for a while; shock that spreads across Tom’s face faster than Chris’s, which should have concerned him. How he still looked like he might throw another hit, punch, kick, how he simply didn’t look finished until Tom managed to catch his gaze and it seemed as if some mask was put up around him.

Tom swallowed and Chris looked sorry.

“Let’s go home.”

At home, Chris tried to apologize. Tom attempted to tell him it was all fine almost ten times, even as a hand came up to grasp at his cheek and Tom couldn’t help but wince. He hadn’t looked in the mirror yet, didn’t really want to, but he was sure underneath his eye was starting to turn black and blue.

After that, Tom let Chris have his way just to make things easier. Simpler; something that would happen more often in the months to come.

Chris pressed him down onto the bed, nudging him into place so his knees were underneath him, spread wide, and his torso bend down at the waist. Tom knows what’s happening even before he can feel Chris’s mouth on him, face already red and buried into the same pillow his hands clenched into. It’s a position Chris knows Tom doesn’t favor, it’s something that makes him feel too open and vulnerable to the point of growing uncomfortable, but Chris always insists. Says he likes it and Tom has no idea what he’s talking about—that Chris has already made him come once with only his tongue and he should really just lay back and enjoy it.

So Tom tried. He tried.

The initial spread of his cheeks made him squirm, but the first press of tongue made him jump. He tried not to protest, just in case Chris took it the wrong way, because Tom knew he was trying to be good, to give something back to Tom as an apology, he should be thankful.

He bite into the pillow under him and moaned, which Chris took as encouragement, smiling against his skin as he flicked his tongue across Tom’s opening, lapping at the pink hole as it gave ever so slightly under the force of his tongue. But all Tom wanted to do was push him away, tell him to stop, even if his dick was hanging between his legs heavy and dripping, all Tom wanted to do was go to bed. Tomorrow would be better. He knew it.

He shifted slightly as Chris pushed a little harder, which only made the hands on his ass squeeze harder and Tom could feel the threat of nails on his skin, daring him to move simply so Chris could sink them in and force Tom’s body still. Tom whimpered, but the sound was muffled by the pillow and he refused to look over his shoulder in an attempt to plead with Chris through eye contact.

Chris pulled back to breathe a little, spit on Tom’s hole and rubbed it in with his fingers. Tom tried his hardest not to wince at the action, feeling his cheeks burn further. It’s humiliating, feeling this turned on when he doesn’t want to; feeling so wet from Chris’s saliva and hating how the pads of his fingers press at his entrance, waiting for it to give before pulling away to rub and touch like Tom was some pet and this was some sort of praise for good behavior.

“Look at you,” Chris laughed behind him, kneading the globes of his ass before snaking a hand down over his sack to pull at his cock. Tom couldn’t help but moan and feel even worse about it all. “You’re so hot for it. Can’t tell me you don’t love this.”

Tom has; he does, but Chris won’t listen, won’t stop, and that made his heart feel so heavy in his chest.

The tongue returned shortly after, lapping again for a moment, making sure Tom was dripping with spit before probing his insides. It’s the third thrust in that got Tom’s hips jerking, had his head thrashing and his lips moving to say ‘don’t, don’t, don’t’ which he hadn’t meant to be audible in the least.

Except, of course, Chris did hear the pleads and pulled away to slap Tom’s ass, watch the flesh jiggle and burn with pink, just as Tom’s face did the same and he whimpered his submission.

“No more of that.” Chris warned, voice rough and dark, before he leaned down to go back to tonguing Tom’s puckered open and tasting his insides. He sobbed silently, body shaking as it betrayed him for the pleasurable heat and licking and fucking of the tongue at his backside. Chris probed deeper, flicking his tongue around only to pull back and suck which only made Tom cry out and grip the bedding even more. Teeth nibbled at sensitive skin, making his rim puffy and red, which Chris has told him in the past made his ‘cute little pucker even better’. Tom doesn’t believe him, but doesn’t protest.

It was in between the sucking and fucking between tongue and mouth that Tom felt his balls draw up and he couldn’t hold back any further, moaning loud and arching back into the touch, which only made Chris smile and try that much harder to push him over the edge. He came only moments later, feeling more guilt and shame than anything else, even as he moaned for it, canting his hips back onto Chris’s tongue which attempted to reach further inside him.

Tom was finally able to collapse into his own mess when Chris withdrew and let go of his ass, panting hard into the sheets and not wanting to face Chris ever again. He was complaint and open when Chris spread him again, pushing in his cock to the relaxed hole instead of his tongue. It was only a few thrusts which made Tom shiver with over-stimulation before Chris came inside him, warm and wet and making him feel just as dirty as he did on the inside as he did out.

Chris pulled him close and cuddled him as he fell asleep, kissing his neck as he once more told Tom how sorry he was, how it won’t happen again and how he loved him.  


Tom replied that it’s alright, that he loved him too, and those words leave a hollowing feeling in his chest and a sickness in his stomach. It hurt, because he knew the bruise under his eye would fade after a while, but this disgusting feeling wouldn’t ever go away.


	6. A Starting Point.

They met in University by accident. 

Tom was in a rush, already late for class, and bumped into Chris while racing up the steps and the other went down. He apologized profusely, eyes big with worry as they darted between the nearest clock he could see and the man he’d just bumped into as he walked up the steps backwards, slipping on every other step. He missed Chris’s wide smile or the amusement in his eyes or even him saying it was all fine, that he could make it up to him by giving him his name and possible grabbing some coffee—

But Tom was too distracted and as the thirty-second ‘sorry!’ left his lips, he finally turned and ran off toward his class, squeezing in and out of people and leaving Chris to watch longingly as he disappeared, silently vowing to get this stranger’s name next time, because there would be a next time, he decided. Most definitely.

A week later, they met again in one of the dining halls. Scarlett was eating with Tom when Chris came over with a crooked smile and a little wave. It took Tom a full minute to realize who he was before he blushed hard and buried his face in his hands to groan and hide away.

Scarlett laughed at this and turned toward Chris, eying him up. “Let me guess, he ran into you?”

“This a common occurrence?”

Scarlett snickered and Tom flipped up the hood of his jacket in an attempt to bury himself in his clothes. After ten more minutes of apologizing, Tom managed to calm down enough to introduce himself properly. They talked and talked and neither noticed when Scarlett excused herself. They only parted when the hall was closing and the staff forced them to leave, but Chris made sure to give Tom his number before they went their separate ways.

That night, Tom called up Scarlett to ask for her opinion.

“Did you see the way he was looking at you? Tom, call him. If you don’t, I will.”

Tom was still reluctant, he hadn’t dated anyone in what felt like years, but Scarlett wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“He’ll be good for you.” 

The next day, Tom called Chris up. They went out for coffee and a few days later, dinner. A movie. Multiple dates followed and things fell into place. Weeks and months passed. Things were good; happy.

They were in love. 

\---

In their Junior year, they moved in together. It wasn’t anything big—a small flat right off the edge of campus that fit them both quite comfortable for the next two years. A private place of their own where Tom could wake up early on Sunday mornings, look down at Chris who was shifting away from the crawling sunrays that filter in through the window and laugh, thinking that this is exactly how he wants to spend the rest of his days—held by the man he loved in their bed feeling as warm and safe as he could ever feel.

Later, when Tom had finally managed to kiss Chris awake and promise him the sun was surely not a bad thing, they would both get up to cook breakfast, though Chris always did a little bit more of ass-pinching or slapping with the spatula then actual cooking. All the teasing would lead to lazy morning sex on the living room couch and, more times than not, the sausage left on the stove over cooked and burnt. They still ate it, happily and filled with endorphins, smothered in beans and sauce, before proceeding to the shower together.

These days, in particular, Tom remembers fondly, but at the same time they hurt so terribly too. He can remember the warm Sundays, the playful kitchen shenanigans, and the way Chris’s broad hands would feel scrubbing soap into his hair and down his back, but then at the same time, he remembers when things changed. When he’d make sure not to disturb Chris in the mornings. When he’d make breakfast alone and pray to be showered and out the door before he ever woke up fully. And, really, the good stuff hurt all the more because of it.

\---

The first time Chris hit him, Tom had forgotten his phone at home. An innocent mistake, really.

He had only gotten three hours of sleep the night before, his mind preoccupied by the exams coming up and the papers he had to write. Tired and running on fumes, Tom had left his cell phone on the kitchen counter and Scarlett dragged him out for a few drinks to de-stress after classes that day.

Chris worried, of course, as no word got back to him on the whereabouts of his boyfriend and the clock grew closer and closer to midnight. It was almost one by the time Tom got home, tispy and sleepy and gargling his words.

He didn’t see the slap coming until his eyes were tearing up because of it, holding his cheek and staring back at Chris, wide eyed and mouth open, trying to figure out what just happened.

Silence filled the room like the plague and both men waited for the other to do something, say something, anything. Three more minutes passed in this still, silent room and Tom wondered if he was dreaming. If any of this was actually real, because Chris still looked almost angry and his shoulders were still too tense and Tom wondered, just briefly, if he should be pulling back, protecting his body for another hit, defend—

The world started moving again when Chris’s body unwound and grabbed up Tom, pulling him into a tight hug to bury his nose into soft curls, breathe him in and Tom could feel Chris shudder.

“You scared me.” Was the only thing that fell from Chris’s mouth and Tom accepted it, still dizzy with the hit and alcohol in his veins, mind replacing it for the apology he so rightfully deserved, and it was enough. They pulled apart and Chris kissed him, warm and loving just like always, so Tom kissed back and forgot. Chris held him so close that night, Tom fell asleep listening to the steady heart beat thrumming against his back.

In the morning, Tom would look in the mirror and notice how just under his left eye seemed just a touch swollen and sensitive. Nothing more, hardly noticeable, but when he touched it a little jolt of pain shot through his cheek bone as a reminder. He thought nothing of it. After all, it was just a onetime thing.

It wouldn’t happen again.


	7. Clean it Raw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depression, uneasiness, and suicidal thoughts.
> 
> It's just got dark.
> 
> Real dark.

The car ride is made in silence. It’s unnerving.

Evans took notice of how Tom didn’t move to do up his seat belt, noticed the odd hang of his arm and the wince when he nudged it in any way at all, but said nothing. He wanted to mention the hospital, a doctor, take Tom somewhere they could really help him, because right now he looked like death. Beaten and broken and bruised. He thought all this, but didn’t voice any of it. Keeping his throat quiet as his brain raged on, not knowing exactly what to do.

His hands tighten against the steering wheel, turning white with the grip as his muscles memorize that hold and almost refuse to let go. Tom doesn’t meet his eye at all, just stares through the window, forehead pressed against the glass with the sort of eyes Evans had only ever seen on dead things.

The streets around them are silent and dark, driving through the city with the echo of the car’s turning signal blinking ‘ _ding, ding, ding’_ and the roll of tires across pavement are the only sounds for a long, long while. Evans doesn’t realize it until later that he took the long way back to his apartment, not thinking.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” Is the first thing he hears Tom say after they hung up the phones. It’s a stupid question. Stupid, because _yes, you idiot, you’re staying with me!_ But at the same time Evans can listen between the words and hear the silent beg to not take him to a hospital. Not tell anyone. He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t listen, but Evans can’t bring himself to take Tom anywhere else but back to his own apartment.

So, he says yes like he should and risks just the smallest quirk of his lips, turning his head slightly to look at Tom full on and not just from the corner of his eye. Tom still isn’t looking at him, still looks dead, and something inside Evans snaps, shatters, falls apart and so suddenly inside he feels completely hollowed out.

He wonders if this is what Tom must be feeling.

Wonders how long he’s felt this way.

And keeps driving with the silence ringing heavy in his ears.

\---

When they finally pull up to Evans’s apartment, he helps Tom out of the car who luckily doesn’t protest. He clings to Evans in a grip that feels like if he let’s go for any second he’ll fall and never get back up again. Tom just barely holds back a scream as Evans accidentally touches his bad arm, yelping and jerking away. Evans just apologizes profusely and watches as the limb just swings uselessly next to Tom who only stutters out an ‘it’s alright’ in a shaking voice as they move on.

“Do you know how to put a bone in its socket?” Was the second full sentence Tom had spoken to him since he’d gotten in the car. Evans looked over at the dangling arm, awkward and heavy against Tom’s side once more and could feel his stomach turning even though it was so obvious and he knew. It just sort of hit him then that Chris had done this to him—his fucking boyfriend. And he’d heard the stories, Scarlett had warned him, but just seeing exactly what Chris did to Tom…

“I could try.” Came the reply, because Evans had no clue, only ever seen it done in the movies or on tv. “Oh—“ Evans paused, fishing his keys out by the door and gave Tom a little tiny smile. Try to act normal. With Tom half unconscious with his arm fucking hanging by muscle and tendons and, jesus, this was not at all how he pictured bringing Tom back to his place for the first time. “Do you have a problem with dogs?”

Tom blinks and Evans doesn’t know if it’s from him processing the question or trying not to pass out. Or both. “Dogs?”

“Yeah, well, technically ‘dog’. He’s a bulldog—American, probably a sleep, but…just wanted to be sure.” He wants to shut himself up, but somehow can’t. It’s a nervous habit that’s only making him more nervous.

Tom just nods at it all, not saying yes or no either way, which Evans just takes as a sign to get on with it. He stops talking so much and helps Tom inside, because there are obviously more troubling matters at hand besides Tom liking dogs or not.

A few minutes later they’re both on the couch, sitting to face the other with Evans cutting Tom’s shirt away with a pair of kitchen scissors that Tom can’t look at and has to make his entire body tense as to not flinch every time they almost make contact with his skin. He’s shaking and Evans knows it’s not entirely from the cold air. Absently he wonders if Chris had ever picked up a pair of scissors and, if he looks long enough, if he could find the scars they might have left behind.

The thought makes him want to be sick.

“On three.” He says, voice heavy, when he grips at Tom’s shoulder and his collar.

Tom squeezes his eyes closed tight, fighting back the scream wanting to tear through his throat at the simple pressure of a hand on his skin.

“One.”

Evans can see Tom’s teeth biting into his lip, forcing himself quiet, ready to draw blood and how many times has he done that to keep the noises at bay?

“Two.”

Evans prays silently to God.

Tom turns his head away and Evans thinks he wouldn’t be surprised if God wasn’t listening.

“Three—“

He moves his hand, jerks Tom’s arm. There comes a loud scream that echoes in his ears that he doesn’t think he’ll soon forget, if ever.

It’s done within that second. Evans moves back, away from Tom as quickly as he can because he had hurt him, clearly, and doesn’t know if he can handle that. It’s not like Tom blames him for it. He had asked for it (no, no, don’t think that, never that) and now he’s quietly crying on Evans couch with his head hanging down. Slowly, Tom falls forward, his body growing too heavy for him, too tired, so Evans moves again to catch him, hold him close to which Tom is just too much of everything to even react. Just presses his face into Chris’s chest and cries.

Cries because he needs to for all the pain to subside.

Evans looses track of the seconds and minutes that Tom quietly sobs into his shirt, seven minutes and twenty-two seconds being the last number he remembers. When he’s done, sniffling softly, turning his head to look down at his set shoulder to wiggle his fingers for the first time in hours, Tom asks another question.

“Would…would you mind if I used your bath?”

\---

The water is warm against his skin.

The pain killers Evans gave him were making his entire body feel fuzzy.

Something not over the counter he had left over from a knee injury that he never got rid of. He was hesitant to give them to him, but the way Tom still moved was too stiff and he wasn’t blind. He tried not to look before, but watching Tom walk away towards his bathroom had his eyes drawn to the large bruises running up one side, black and blue and red as blood seeped under the skin. Tom walked with a horribly limp on his own and a wince every time he shifted. Many more bruises, old and new, covered him. For the second time that night, Evans thought ‘hospital’ but had to force himself not to. That was obviously not what Tom wanted. So, against everything screaming in his head he’d given Tom two pills before shutting the door of the bathroom to give him privacy. _‘Just yell if you need something, alright?’_

Tom sits in the small bath with his knees bend to fit his legs inside. He waits to move until the medicine kicks in, making his body feel lose and heavy. Only then, when he can’t feel much more than a buzz in his head, does he start to clean himself up.

His injured arm still refuses to move properly, his mobility restricted as he starts the slow process. His body feels just as numb as his insides as he wet the washcloth Evans gave him and smears on enough soap that it dribbles into the warm bathwater to dissipate. When he’s done and his body is as clean as it’s going to be, the water is tinted a soft pink around him that Tom feels utterly disgusting in. Quickly, Tom drains the tub and refills it with water that steams and burns his skin. It feels better that way.

His mind is empty except for the soft buzz that whirls around in his ears. It’s like an annoying itch that Tom tries his hardest to ignore. It’s like pulling at the stitches to watch the wound open up again and ooze.

The first time he dunks his head under the water, the buzz is gone and silent remains.

The second time, he thinks that maybe he likes this better.

The third time, he wonders what would happen if he decided to not bring himself back up to the surface again.  And stays there.

His lungs are burning, Tom realizes silently, but doesn’t really care all that much. His ribs hurt so much more. He stares up through the shifting sheet of water, so thin, only an inch between his nose and air, but doesn’t grace his nose with the smell. It would be easy. This is much more peaceful, down here.

Tom bolts upright and coughs and coughs and coughs. He silently screams and digs his hands into his hair, pulling hard and wonders _why._ Water sloshes out of the bath down to splash on the floor and he had to wonder when the water had gone so cold. As fast as he can, Tom is getting out of the bath, tries not to think of the water as he dries himself with the towel or the rest of the pain meds just sitting in the little cabinet or what sort of things Evans might have under the sink.

He doesn’t think any of these things.

Keeps his mind blank.

Silent.

Buzzing.

And, still, he gives Evans a very small sheepish smile as he apologizes for the water on the floor when he came running to see if he was alright from hearing the sudden noises.

It was nothing, after all.

\---

Tom is dressed up in one of Evans’s too-big shirts as they argue over the fact that Tom feels rude for sleeping in Evans’s bed while Evans insists. It only ends because Tom is too tired and Evans is too worried. After, Tom submits and doesn’t see the pitied look in Evans’s eyes as he turns away with his goodnight and thank you. He doesn’t want to.

The bed is much bigger then Tom would have thought was needed, but he soon figures out why as his eyes adjust to the darkness. East, Evans’s bulldog, takes up half the bed as he splays out to claim the rumpled sheets, snoring softly. No movement and no sound is made except for the continued snores as Tom climbs into the bed, feeling small and odd in this strange place. He hasn’t slept in anyone else’s bed but his own in years. Hasn’t had anyone else but Chris as a bed partner in almost as long.

The thought makes him feel guilty. Sick. Wants to crawl out of this bed and return to his own, pepper kisses along Chris’s jaw and whisper sorry over and over again until his stomach feels better again and Chris hugs him tight, forces him close and breathes in his scent.

The scent he smells now isn’t the right Chris.

His nose is pressed into the smell of cinnamon and pine trees instead of fresh cut grass and the ocean. The cinnamon clings to his own body, the realization of it making Tom curl up into a ball and whimper, fighting back the urge to vomit. He begins to silently sob again, shoulders shaking, and the dull ache of his body in pain slowly returns to him.

In the darkness of this unknown bedroom, Tom squeezes his eyes closed and tries to block out the buzzing inside his mind. The thought of miles and miles of water pressing down on his chest, squeezing into his lungs, and so many hands coming up from the depths to grab at his body, drag him down further and bruise every inch of his skin until it all turned as black as the world behind his eyes. He tells himself over and over again how horrible that would be, but keeps thinking of how quiet and peaceful it would be. Wants it.

Tom falls asleep, finally, from exhaustion and dreams about angel wings and bleeding lips.


	8. Names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this isn't technically a chapter, but I want to put everything up on here that has Abused!Tom in it, so everyone who doesn't follow my blog has the entire story and all the feelings. So! Please accept this drabble from a while ago in the correct timeline of the rest of it all... 
> 
> Enjoy.

_“I’m sorry for this.”_

Tom’s only half-aware of the words being spoken to him. He’s trying to blink away sleep; to force his body to wake up now, now, _now._ Because suddenly he can’t move. His arms are held tight above him under fingers that are cutting off circulation, that only squeeze tighter as the realization comes over him and Tom attempts to struggle. He’s not sure who’s holding him down, but the hands are big, familiar, and he’s sure if they are removed he would be able to look at the fingerprints and remember the grooves and curves.

But right now he can’t see any of that. His head won’t move the way he wants. His vision is filled up with Evans who’s kneeling in front of him, holding his ankles and pushing his legs up, apart. Tom can feel panic rising with bile in his stomach. He blinks, because this isn’t _happening_ , this isn’t _real_. Evan’s wouldn’t—

_“Really, I am.”_

Tom chokes on the lump that’s formed in his throat now. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on something other than the sensation of hands pulling down his pants, touching bare skin and squeezing, groping, digging nails in until marks show up and only digs harder. Tom wants to scream, but he can’t find his voice.

_“So sorry.”_

At this, Tom finds himself smiling. Laughing through his closed up airway, thinking that this was possibly the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard. Because, _Jesus_ , at least Evans’s is _sorry_ about all this, right? At least he’s apologetic, right? It’s more than Chris has ever…

The breath Tom can manage hitches in his throat at that thought. At the feeling of fingers slipping down to his entrance. Tears burn his eyes. He just never thought…never thought Evans’s would—he was supposed to be _safe_ —

There’s a press, the feeling of nails, and Tom struggles against the hold, screams—

_“Sorry.”_

—-

Tom wakes up in a cold sweat, shaking, silent tears running down his face. There’s no one in the bedroom with him. Evan’s is out in the living room, snoring softly on the couch. Tom is alone and no one is touching him, hurting him, but he can still feel the ache in his bones; the familiar grip of hands. He finds himself muttering the name ‘Chris’ over and over to himself, whispering it into the dark as he curls his legs up, hugging them to his chest and buries his face into the pillow.

It terrifies him, actually, because he doesn’t know which Chris he’s talking about anymore.


	9. Cutting Thread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for this long wait, but I finally got it done. Yay if anyone cares?
> 
> But yeah, lots of plot as things slowly wrap up...

When he wakes up, he’s in pain.

 

It’s not the bad kind of pain, because Tom knows what the bad kind of pain feels like and this isn’t it. His first thought isn’t ‘please, just let me sleep forever’ in a way that isn’t supposed to be poetic, simply a truth, but instead he just thinks ‘ow’ quietly, groans softly when he shifts, because this pain is irritating and dull. It sits on his chest so he has to work to breathe, but at least he still wants to breathe.

Past that thought, Tom finally opens his eyes and there’s a long moment where he stares at the wall and thinks there should be a dresser there instead of a window. It’s obvious that he’s not in the right place, the right room, but cannot really recall what the right one should be until he rolls over to the other side, wincing when he puts too much pressure on his shoulder, and then there’s a drooping dog’s face staring right back at him.

The next thought clears everything up in his head, finally, and he lets out a little ‘Oh!’ from his lips before slowly smiling at the bulldog. “Hey, East.” He greets with a pat to the dog’s head, to which in returns he gets a little grunted-huff and a tired blink before the dog gets up to move just as Tom does the same and is quickly flopped over into the vacant warm spot to settle back down for more sleep. Tom tries out a laugh, a very light chuckle that shakes his ribs so they ache and he quickly stops the sound.

He’s up before he can think too much on that, slowly rising to his feet which turn out to be stable enough underneath him. Enough so that he doesn’t stumble as he walks, though it’s still a slow process as his entire body protests the movements. Upon a quick search around-- living room, kitchen, bathroom-- Tom finds himself alone.

Which, in all truth, shouldn’t be a bad thing. It should be good, because then he doesn’t have to face Evans, have an awkward conversation with him about the whole situation. Tom would have to explain a little more than what he knew Evans already knew from Scarlett, which wouldn’t go well, seeing as there wasn’t any logical answer to give. Why Chris hurt him, when it started, why Tom didn’t leave already or tell anyone-- he’d sound like some lovesick teenager.

He’d have to say it wasn’t so bad, which would make Evans look at him crazy. He’d have to say Chris wasn’t always violent, at least there was no reason for him to be, which would probably make him angry. He’d say he couldn’t leave, because then Evans would look at him sadly in the way that most people looked at him.

His eyes would lose some light. He’d look away for a moment, then look back, because most people couldn’t face such an issue head on. It was their own defense, which was okay, because there is only so much that anyone else wants to handle and if you detach yourself from such a situation, if only that much, it makes it seem easier to deal with. To then give out advice that everyone gives out-- you have to leave him, he’s not good for you, you don’t deserve this-- and Tom just wants to tell them it’s not that easy. It’s not just like you forget so many years of loving the same man, still loving him, to just leave. It doesn’t work like that, it’s harder to do, and it’s just so easy for them to say because they’re not the ones it’s happening to.

Everyone’s simply right when it’s not their own problems.

So, yeah, Tom’s happy Evans isn’t there right now. Because he’s still in too much pain and he fears his mind isn’t in a proper state to hold that conversation just yet. But, at the same time, this is dangerous. Sitting on a couch in an unknown apartment collected up in his own thoughts.

Because just last night he’d been thinking about how it might feel to drown in a bathtub. Or how there were plenty of pain killers left in the bottle to do some sort of damage. And if he just tried hard enough to get it done, it would be done and he’d never have to end up explaining himself to anyone ever again.

By the time Tom hears another sound besides the ragged intake of his own breath, he’s worked himself into something of a panic. Curled in on himself, knees to his chest sitting in the corner of Evans’s couch too scared to move. He’s terrified if he goes into the bathroom he’ll end up taking too many medications even though his shoulder is starting to throb. He’s terrified if he goes into the kitchen the light of the morning would look too pretty on sharp edges if he stared too long. He’d never do it. Right? But there was still the nagging voice that said, ‘ _yes, yes you would_ ’ that he didn’t wanted to take the chance on. 

That’s how Evans finds him. Curled tight in the corner of the couch, long limbs cramped, eyes glazed over and staring too hard at the floor lost in complete thought.

“Tom?” He says the name softly, cautiously, and it seems to do the trick; break whatever spell Tom is under.

Tom looks up sharply, not wincing but there is a second where he needs to draw himself back into his body, put himself in the current situation that doesn’t involve reflexes that might be needed to protect one’s face, much more fragile parts there, cartilage is so much softer then bone after all. There comes a quick flash of fear that’s been so embedded in Tom’s being that Evans thinks he might not ever see him without it—and then Tom blinks. He comes to and is smiling ever so slightly at the other, forcing his shoulders to relax. Everything about him is tense.

“Good morning,” is the first thing Tom says, which seems so average Evans can’t help but laugh.

“It’s two in the afternoon, Tom.” He grins, falls back on the couch with Tom. There’s distance between them that neither try to fill. Tom tried to grin back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Good afternoon, then.” Tom corrects, keeps talking because silence means uncertainty and he can’t control the words if he’s not the one saying them first. “I’m sorry for you having to sleep on the couch. You really didn’t have to.”

Evans shrugs sheepishly, awkward, rubs his neck out of instinct. “Don’t worry, it’s a comfortable couch. Besides, I can sleep anywhere. Did, ah, you sleep well?”

It’s a simple question asking for a complex answer. Tom quickly lets the thought of waves rising too high above his head, about feathers falling in the air, about blood and a mixture of names and how he thought he never wanted to look Evans in the eye ever again run through his mind.

He thinks about last night. Before bed and bathes and pain killers. Before sitting on the couch waiting for his body to give out and his forehead pressed against cool glass watching street lights flicker by him. About how he was shoved to the ground and clothing was pulled and— _oh_.

It was the deciding factor, of sorts, gave him a reason to go back without it really being about him.

“I need to ask you something.” Tom says, avoiding the question, but that’s okay. Evans is paying attention more then be was before. Tom takes it as his queue to continue. “I need your help,” His body is suddenly shaking. His lips try, lets his tongue dart out to wet them, but it only makes the cracks between sting. He swallows thick, long pauses, breathes because he has to.

And finally, “I need to go back.”

\---

It takes a long period of persuasion. Evans gets close to raising his voice, but quickly changes tones when Tom seems to shrink away. After almost an hour, he finally gives in with a heavy sigh, agrees even though he would just rather Tom never go back there even if it is just to get his own things.

Tom manages to get into his dirty clothes once again after refusing Evans’s own. With the help of two pain meds and Evans’s supporting hands he manages his jeans and his shirt, ignores the way they cling too much and how there’s blood on some spots of them, dark and dried now.

Evans’s grip on the wheel is tight as they drive. Tom turns his head away from the white knuckles, pretends he doesn’t see them even though his stomach is still coiled into knots. He’s trying his hardest to remain calm, knows he looks decent enough on the outside, but inside he’s a raging storm. He feels like he might vomit, suffocate, knows this isn’t right—he’d just left last night. He’d left without Chris’s knowing or approval. He left in the middle of the night and was now going back to leave permanently.

His eyes keep glancing at the digital clock in the car, counting down the minutes to when he knows Chris will be home from work. Figures if they work fast enough he’ll be able to get all his clothes and belongings before that happens, if he’s lucky. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he has to face Chris again. He doesn’t know what Evans will do if he ever faces Chris at all. Tom envisions fists and blood and himself trying to break it apart. He can see someone hitting him, broken lip and blood and the world would go silent. No one would know who it was, but it wouldn’t matter. Tom would shake his head, say he was fine, it was fine, and tell Evans he was okay. To just go back to his apartment, Tom was fine right here. And then he’d be trapped. Again. Forever.

The very thought made his heart race. His chest aches. He couldn’t. Never again.

\---

His key still works which, really, shouldn’t have been a surprise, but somewhere deep inside Tom was hoping for the possibility of not being able to get inside, give up before this went any further. But things are never that simple, easy, and the door opens just as it always does on hinges that creak ever so slightly with rust.

Inside, it’s silent. Dead, dark, quiet. Tom flicks on the lights just like he’s always done, resists the urge to toe on his shoes to leave by the door and instead gestures Evans forward through to the bedroom. If he sees the faded red stains on the carpet, he doesn’t say anything. Tom knows if anyone looks close enough they would see the evidence of it all. How there are stains in the carpet, scratches on the hardwood, patches of painted wall that doesn’t quite match up with the rest of it, scars left on a home that carry the same representation on Tom’s body or mind somewhere as well.

“We just…just need to get some clothes and…and things.” Tom says, suddenly trying to think of something he possesses besides articles of clothing that he would want to take with him. Looking around, nothing really belongs to him and there’s nothing he really wants to take. There used to be pictures, frames, but Tom slowly put those away in drawers finding it too difficult at points to see himself happy with Chris instead of dreading every moment. The blankets would smell too much like Chris and there was no real need to take anything from the kitchen, bathroom, furniture…

There was nothing attaching him to this place. Nothing but Chris and his presences chaining him like a dog, making him come on command and bark.

Evans is back from his second trip of folded clothes to find Tom sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands sobbing. He can’t help it. Everything hurts, being here. Everything’s too fresh, an open wound oozing and bleeding and growing more infected the more it’s open to the air with stray particles getting inside.

Chris. Chris. Chris was his only reason. His only reason for being here, staying here, doing everything…for so long. For so long it was just him. Not even _them_ , but _him_.

“I-I can’t.” He lets out through his throat when fingers wrap around his wrists, trying to get him to look up. It’s not the thing he wants to say, but he says it anyway. “Why, why am I _here?”_   He hisses out, angry, suddenly so angry at himself for the simply question of ‘ _Why?_ ’

“Because you can never stay away.” The answer comes, and it’s neither of their voices.

Both look up at the same time. One’s blood runs cold, the other’s boils hot.

“Chris.” Is the very quietly breathed out answer, a sigh lined with fear, from Tom’s lips.

He’s there, standing in the doorway, filling it up, big and broad and staring Tom down who only wants to shrink away. Evans is on his feet, body between Chris and Tom with his fists curled and body ready to pounce if need be. Tom can see it happening over and over again in his head. His entire body is quaking under his own emotions, thoughts, having Chris so close and Evans even closer.

“Is this your boyfriend?”

There’s an underline tone of disgust that Tom doesn’t know if he simply picks up on or is making up. His world is zeroing into a single pin point of light, his ears are ringing, he’s not breathing, spots in front of his eyes—

“Well, while you’re getting all your shit, you might want to remember this.”

Chris moves, Tom doesn’t, Evans is ready for a fight.

Tom’s vision has narrowed down so far he’s not exactly sure what happened, what Evans was doing or where he was, but suddenly Chris is in front of him, holding something and with a force that is rough and heavy just to show that he can do it, the thing is thrust into Tom. There’s pain spiking at his ribs and the familiar feeling of air being forced out of his body.

Slowly, Tom looks up. Chris looks down at him and that’s it.

There’s nothing in Chris’s eyes. Nothing there that holds any sort of affection or possession, any negative or positive thoughts that revolve around Tom staying right where he is while Evans leaves. There’s nothing of their past years, nothing of last night, nothing at all. It makes Tom’s stomach tighten for an entirely different reason this time, because this, this right here, was Chris’s way of telling him to get out.

He looks down, fingers curl around fabric and—

“Come on, Tom.” Evans grips his forearm, pulling him away with the last of Tom’s belongings under his arm, “Let’s go, okay?”

Tom says nothing, can’t say anything, just let’s his body get dragged away with his eyes fixed on Chris watching him go.

He doesn’t remember how he got back into the car. He doesn’t remember sitting or the sound of the car door closing, but the engine starts and wheels turn regardless. The world moves on around him, just as it always has, whether he feels like it should be or not.

In his hands, he looks down to find Evans’s jacket grasped between his fingers. It feels like a starting point and end point, and something inside Tom that had been broken for so long finally crumbles away.

He cries. He presses the rough fabric to his nose and, as quietly as he can, cries. Evans knows he is, can, hear it, but keeps his eyes on the road to give Tom this small amount of privacy. And so he silently sobs, soaking the jacket pressed into his face, eyes hot and mouth open, drooling while inhaling the scent of rain and worn and Evans. Just Evans.

It smells like what he thinks home should smell like, soft and warming and…

Tom doesn’t know.

He just doesn’t know if he can handle that.


	10. Glue it Back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, hu? Well, I'm trying to finish this again, so hopefully it will happen...
> 
> This part is ENTIRELY unedited right now, I'll get to it tomorrow, thank you!
> 
> Also, thank you all for your wonderful comments and support so far! You guys are the reason I finally picked this back up again! <3

He only stays through the week, though Evans offers him longer, sounding like a permanent solution, but Tom’s not ready for that just yet. It’s not a break up, it’s just distance, because he’s not entirely sure he’s ready to get right back into having someone sleeping next to him again. At least, that’s his argument. In the end, there’s not much fighting it. By the end of the week on Saturday, he’s moving all his stuff once more, this time taking it to Scarlett’s apartment where she has an open bedroom and has been looking for someone to claim it. He thinks East is more upset by his absence then Evans is, seeing as the dog has lost his favorite heater. With Evans, well, they’ve got a dinner date the following Wednesday. It’ll be fine.

Scarlett, for her part, is more worried about him then Evans is—at least openly. She doesn’t really like when Tom’s alone by himself in the apartment and always asks if he’s okay, which he is or at least he thinks he is. Even so, she makes a doctor’s appointment for him, just to check out his arm and the remaining bruises on his body. Reluctantly, he goes, but feels like a victim the entire time. He hates it.

The doctor who looks him over is a woman, Dr. Smulders, to which Tom is grateful for. She looks him over slowly, talks to him in a calm manner about the healing process of the various marks, checks his ribs, shoulder, and just to be safe manages to persuade Tom into getting x-rays when he sees him hold back a wince when he moves to rise from the table.

By the end of it, Tom’s perfectly health and as long as he doesn’t do any sort of heavy lifting or strain his body too much, he should be feeling perfectly fine in another week or so. He thanks her with a small smile, turning to put his shirt back on, but doesn’t hear the door open or close behind him.

“You can press charges, you know,” Comes the soft voice of Dr Smulders, understanding and hesitant.

Tom was expecting this, sooner or later, almost thinking he could get away without this part of the exam for a minute, but apparently life was still being cruel to him.

“Yes, I’m aware, thank you.” Tom replies quick and to the point. Of course, he’s already thought about this. Multiple times on multiple occasions, but he never actually went through with it. Just let the majority of the evidence fade from his body, hoping to not have to think it again. Now, at least, this would be the last time.

(He hoped.)

Physically, he’s healing. Mentally, it’s a different story.

He dreams about Chris a lot. Both in a combination of how he used to love him and how he abused him. He’s plagued more nights then not with waking up to find his sheets clingy to sweat slicked skin and panting for breathe, the feeling of hands still ghosting over his body. When not dreaming about Chris, he dreams about the ever present ocean; sinking right to the bottom and never coming back up. Falling from the sky or being covered by the earth. They’re always such calm dreams, welcoming, and for those reasons alone Tom finds he hates them even more than the ones involving Chris. At least with those, Tom knows how to feel when he wakes up. With the ones about water or dirt he doesn’t know what to do, how to feel, and ends up staring at the ceiling until the sun comes up feeling hollow on the inside.

He doesn’t know what to do anymore.

For her part, Scarlett tries to help. She tries to get Tom would of bed before noon, tries to make him eat a full meal, tries to talk to him. Twice she suggests he go talk to someone—a professional ‘someone’ and twice Tom shakes his head (he’s not mental, he’s _fine_ , it’ll just take some time). She’s a good friend in that sense, though Tom wonders briefly if she’s only doing all this because she feels guilty for not stepping in sooner or suggesting that he date Chris in the first place. With these thoughts ever present in his mind, Tom finds himself growing angry with her as well, as if it was her fault.

It doesn’t last long.

One night she brings home take out for them both and, with a sudden burst of frustration, he snaps at her, knocks the container of fried rice from her hand and yells that he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Panting afterwards, he disappears to his room with a slam of the door for almost five minutes before coming out to apologize and help clean up the rice.

In the middle of picking up bits of onions and pea from the carpet, Tom breaks down sobbing and Scarlett pulls him into her arms without a word, staying like that for a long time.

With Evans, it feels like their relationship is continuing on pause.

Tom goes out whenever Evans asks, for the most part, saying yes to every movie, dinner, or night in that is suggested. He meets up with him for lunches in between his classes. They go get sandwiches at a small café down by the campus—these are the only real times Tom eats full meals, not wanting Evans of all people to worry more then he already does.

Afterwards, during, or even before (it doesn’t really matter the ‘when’ of it all) they kiss like a normal couple—make-out, hold hands, snuggle on the couch or with the cup holder of the movie theater chair between them, trying to get comfortable, but that’s really all. Evans has gotten Tom’s shirt off three times, but it only lasts long enough to be semi-heavy petting before Tom starts to panic and has to stop.

Which, Evans does. All the time. He’s gentle and listens and always asks if Tom is okay, if he wants to continue, his yes or no on whatever matter that comes up and, if he does say stop or no or simply starts to struggle, Evans backs off immediately. The worse was went he accidentally got on top of Tom, towered over him a little too much and held him tight by the waist. Tom pulled away, starting to hyperventilate with tears in his eyes. Evans got up as soon as he noticed, apologizing over and over again until Tom managed to get his breath back, telling him it was alright. Even so, that night they didn’t continue anything and Evans only ever let their legs touch when they watched a movie.

Tom tried to gage whether Evans was okay with all these situations on multiple occasions and, more than once, told him he didn’t have to stick around if he wanted to, reminding him they didn’t have to date if it was too much of a burden. And Evans, being Evans, just smiled at him, kissed his cheek, and asked if he was free on whatever day it might be next week.

But nothing progressed. Days passed, weeks, turned slowly into months and still Tom felt like he had stalled out and stayed in the same exact spot all this time. It wasn’t like he went looking for Chris again—he didn’t want to get back together with him, never, and he had as much closure as he was going to get under the circumstances, but still he could barely bring himself to step outside unless Evans was involved. His chest always seemed to ache and he said he was sorry for nearly everything now, hushed little whispers of the word as if he was apologizing for his very existence and the burden he was; he carried.

And of course that was sick, it was stupid and Tom knew it. He fucking knew all of this, but still he folded deeper into himself. As his body healed and mended once more, Tom found it almost odd to look at himself without so much as a mark on him when he became so accused to it. The lack of physical pain twisted inside his body, turned foul and reappeared as mental grief that Tom found wasn’t healing with time.

He dreamed more often now of the ocean. Of the millions of gallons of water pressing down on him or the pounds and pounds of soil that filled his mouth; his lungs and still, the feeling of peace came over him with each and every sleep.

\---

It was a Tuesday and Tom sat in the small coffee shop on campus, waiting for Evans to be done with his morning classes so they could go get lunch as they usual did. He sat quietly at one of the little tables with a cup of black coffee warming his hands, having not taken a single sip yet.

Tom was tired and looked it too, dark circles around his eyes and shoulders slumped, hair a curled mess that stuck out entirely uncontrolled. He felt just as bad as he looked, every limb in his body feeling heavy with self-hate and dread. His head hung low, staring into the dark liquid of his cup, feeling the tingle of warmth in his fingertips as steam rolled off the top.

“Okay, I can’t take this,” A voice broke through his thoughts, seeping under his skin and drawing his head up. “You look like you’re about to attempt drowning yourself in coffee. Literally.”

Tom quirked a brow, staring up at a man who stared back and, clearly, was talking to him. He wore something like professional clothes—rumpled dress shirt with a jacket and slacks, a bag slung over his shoulder and glasses pushed down to the bridge of his nose. His eyes were wide and focused, staring directly at Tom without so much as blinking.

“E-Excuse me?” He choked out, wondering who this guy was and why exactly he decided to take notice.

“You,” The stranger replied, moving around to take a seat opposite Tom, much to his surprise. “You look utterly miserable. That, or you’re just really sad about that drink. And, I mean, it’s understandable, this place has shit coffee.”

Tom took a moment then to blink, open his mouth then close it again, confused. “I—I’m sorry, who are you again?”

“Concerned stranger passing by,” The man gave a shrug and, after another long look of confusion from Tom, grinned. “I’m a professor here, teach philosophy. Professor Downey, or Robert if you’d like. Whatever.” He waved a hand in the air, dismissing Tom’s still surprised look as if it didn’t matter, because he did this sort of stuff all that time. “Now, back to the issue, you look like shit.”

Tom flushed quickly, both in embarrassment and anger from what Robert was saying. “I beg your pardon, but—“

“It’s none of my business, yeah, but when you look ready to jump off a cliff I’m worried.”

“I don’t need a stranger worrying about me!” Tom gave, completely aghast that someone could be so blunt.

At this, Robert simply stared at him for a second, two, over the top of his glasses. “Look, kid, what are you doing here? I’ve seen you sitting here alone almost every Tuesday for nearly two months and every time I do you look…dead. Well, deader.”

Tom bit his tongue before he could reply, still slightly confused, but now he was more focused on how a complete stranger could see such changes in him. He paused, licking his lips before answering, now feeling weary. “I’m…I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

“That’s why you’re gloomy?”

“No!” Tom snapped quickly, a bit too quickly apparently, as the professor gave a smug little half-smile as if Tom had just told him everything.

“You know, it’s not good to lie to yourself,”

“It’s not _him_ ,”

Robert was quiet, waiting, and after silence fell, Tom gave out a sigh as he gave in.

“My ex. He…just, I’m having a hard time getting over it all.”

“Broken heart?”

“He liked to hit me.”

This time, it was Robert who looked surprised. He was the one to pause, stare, look Tom over in a manner he had expected. But it was there now, said and open, the first time he’d actually admitted it in such blatant terms. He felt himself sit up straighter, if only by a little bit.

“So,” Robert began again, clearing his throat as if he was suddenly stepping on egg shells, which Tom was fine with. He was the one who wanted to pry. “You mean to say you’re having a hard time moving on?”

“I’m saying,” Tom choked, gripping the cup of his coffee a little harder, feeling the cardboard of the cup bend against his fingers. “That after years of being with a man I loved and who decided it was okay to hit me on a daily basis I’m having a difficult time coming to terms with _not_ wanting to drown myself, thanks.” His voice had lowered a bit near the end to a whispered hiss, glaring down into the blackness of his cup.”I’m not with him anymore. I moved out. I have someone else, so what’s still wrong?”

He felt the tears starting to well up again and, damnit, he was not going to start crying in front of a stranger. He was better than that.

The professor now stared at him, not with any sort of pity or sympathy in his eyes—those looks were short lived and long gone—but now as if he was staring down into a microscope, examining and quizzical. He wanted to shout for him to stop, that his eyes were unnerving and he wasn’t some damned lab rat to be tested on, but he didn’t. Instead, he stared right back with a glare in his eyes, holding back tears while his hands shook and the cup started to crumble in his hands. The hot liquid that fell onto his skin almost felt like nothing.

“The problem, kid,” the man sighed, finally, leaning back in his chair, “Is you.”

And at that—at that, Tom had never wanted to hit someone more in his life.

“You’re a prick,”

“And you’re waiting around for your life to correct itself.” Robert quickly snapped back, looking dead serious now. “Take it from me, kid, sometimes you just have to make the hard choice and decide to fix yourself just because you’re the only one who can.”

With that he got up, adjusted his bag, and went to leave. Tom wanted to both let him go and chase after him. He got the best of both as the man turned around once more, eyes staring right into Tom’s.

“He hit you, right? So instead of rolling over this time, get pissed off and hit him back. He won’t win that way.”

Left feeling stupid, dazed, and awestruck, Tom watched as Robert walked away, down the hall, losing him along the way. He stared long after he was gone; most of his untouched coffee down puddling on the table, his hand red and blotchy in places where it burned him, but Tom didn’t really mind. He was still cleaning up the mess when Evans finally met up with him, smiling until he saw the coffee.

“Something happen?” He asked, eyeing up Tom’s hands.

“No, no,” was the reply, followed with a quick smile. “I was just…thinking and not paying attention. Ready to go?”

And if the next day he asked Scarlett for the number of the therapist she was trying to recommend earlier, he’d chalk it up to a change of heart.


End file.
